PUT THAT DICK IN MY MOUTH!

I don't understand people who seriously root for a college team from a school they never attended. It's like, University of Michigan football doesn't represent the whole state, it represents the University of Michigan. If you didn't go there, why the fuck should you care?

Uh, early 2000s is still pretty "modern"

I'm in p. much the same boat. It took a while for her VU & Nico songs to grow on me because at first I was all like "WTF is this tuneless German bitch doing here???" but she eventually wore me down and won me over. I tried listening to The Marble Index once. That was enough.

Isn't that basically the basis for the entire modern conservative movement?

Wow. That was inappropriate. Sry guys. Promise it won't happen again/

Not enough Gravediggaz EDIT:

My dad rents apartments to illegal Mexican immigrants and when one of them moved out he learned that dude hadn't paid his electric bill in four years and the power company had just never bothered to turned his shit off. So maybe you should become a law breaking wet back?? Happy to help.

All of those names are references to either literary characters, authors, or actresses: - Scout from To Kill a Mockingbird -Rumer after Rumer Godden -Tallulah after Tallulah Bankhead Actually, it's fairly clever and thought-out than most celebrities who give their kids unusual names. That's not really clever or thought-out at all

Ya know, I don't think I've ever heard a single Ryan Adams song. Am I missing out on anything?

Nobody's forcing you dudes to read Marvin's posts. When he posts something retarded either debunk it and move on or just ignore it. These stupid meta-debates over Marvin's idiocy are far more tedious to scroll through than his actual posts, especially since they almost always result in panthermatt7 strolling in here to whine about ideological persecution or whatever.

This is the most active new thread we've had in a while. This place sure does love to talk about itself.

This guy has the best TV ads

You know, I wouldn't even really have a problem with the "all singing" gimmick if the production was up to Kanye's usual standard, but the comparison to that Thom Yorke solo record has really dampened my expectations on that front. A whole album of glitchy bleep-bloops, clicking sounds and off-key emoting. Sounds wonderful. I bet it cleans up at the Grammy's.

Just say cunt, Marvin. It's probably such a miniscule number of people (really really tiny) that it goes under the LIBERAL MEDIA radar. Most people have a sense of decency about them and wouldn't wear a shirt like that, just as I expect most people to not tell black employees to, quote, "sit down, boy." But, in both cases, it happens. However, the number of times that people get, I think you will agree on this, out of hand at the McCain rallies and forums (Palin holds quite a bit of responsibility in this matter.) makes it much different than a couple of people wearing shirts to stoke the coals. If Teddy Bear is supposed to mean nigger, then that's kind of a different question all together. Cunt and nigger carry two very different connotations, don't they? You'd get two different reactions if you wore a shirt that said cunt versus a shirt that said nigger. However, no one is praising the people wearing the shirts, and just thinking that someone would be mauled for wearing a shirt that calls Obama a nigger isn't a legitimate premise, so your whole argument is invalid. That's one explanation. Another is that casual sexism/misogyny is simply way more acceptable in polite society than racism, and it has nothing to do with party affiliation or political ideology. Just ask Hillary Clinton.

Larry Kudlow should sue that guy for stealing his gimmick.

You don't even really need the "when you're creative" part. When you're just a regular fuck-up who's going nowhere in life the idea that none of your problems are really your fault and that you're only an antisocial creep because a medical condition makes you that way is mighty appealing in and of itself, sans any romanticized notions of tortured artistes. Like, I really don't see Matt Young as the type of guy who'd latch on to a personality disorder because he thinks it'll put him in the company of Ernest Hemingway.

PS don't listen to pbone he's a tool of the faceless bourgeoisie elite responsible for alienating man from himself and turning him into a soulless cog in the machine of late capitalism.

Like crowds, drugs, and love, alcohol can befuddle the most lucid mind. Alcohol turns the concrete wall of isolation into a paper screen which the actors can tear according to their fancy, for it arranges everything on the stage of an intimate theatre. A generous illusion, and thus still more deadly. In a gloomy bar where everyone is bored to death, a drunken young man breaks his glass, then picks up a bottle and smashes it against the wall. Nobody gets excited; the disappointed young man lets himself be thrown out. Yet everyone there could have done exactly the same thing. He alone made the thought concrete, crossing the first radioactive belt of isolation: interior isolation, the introverted separation between self and outside world. Nobody responded to a sign which he thought was explicit. He remained alone like the hooligan who burns down a church or kills a policeman, at one with himself but condemned to exile as long as other people remain exiled from their own existence. He has not escaped from the magnetic field of isolation; he is suspended in a zone of zero gravity. All the same, the indifference which greets him allows him to hear the sound of his own cry; even if this revelation tortures him, he knows that he will have to start again in another register, more loudly; with more coherence. People will be together only in a common wretchedness as long as each isolated being refuses to understand that a gesture of liberation, however weak and clumsy it may be, always bears an authentic communication, an adequate personal message. The repression which strikes down the libertarian rebel falls on everyone: everyone's blood flows with the blood of a murdered Durruti. Whenever freedom retreats one inch, there is a hundred-fold increase in the weight of the order of things. Excluded from authentic participation, men's actions stray into the fragile illusion of being together, or else into its opposite, the abrupt and total rejection of society. They swing from one to the other like a pendulum turning the hands on the clock-face of death. Love in its turn swells the illusion of unity. Most of the time it gets fucked up and miscarries. Its songs are crippled by fear of always returning to the same single note: whether there are two of us, or even ten, we will finish up alone as before. What drives us to despair is not the immensity of our own unsatisfied desires, but the moment when our newborn passion discovers its own emptiness. The insatiable desire to fall in love with so many pretty girls is born in anguish and the fear of loving: we are so afraid of never escaping from meetings with objects. The dawn when lovers leave each other's arms is the same dawn that breaks on the execution of revolutionaries without a revolution. Isolation a deux cannot confront the effect of general isolation. Pleasure is broken off prematurely and lovers find themselves naked in the world, their actions suddenly ridiculous and pointless. No love is possible in an unhappy world. The boat of love breaks up in the current of everyday life. Are you ready to smash the reefs of the old world before they wreck your desires? Lovers should love their pleasure with more consequence and more poetry. A story tells how Price Shekour captured a town and offered it to his favourite for a smile. Some of us have fallen in love with the pleasure of loving without reserve -- passionately enough to offer our love to the magnificent bed of a revolution. It was as if they were in a cage whose door was wide open without their being able to escape. Nothing outside the cage had any importance, because nothing else existed any more. They stayed in the cage, estranged from everything except the cage, without even a flicker of desire for anything outside the bars. it would have been abnormal -- impossible in fact -- to escape into something which had neither reality nor importance. Absolutely impossible. For inside this cage, in which they had been born and in which they would die, the only tolerable framework of experience was the Real, which was simply an irresistible instinct to act so that things should have importance. Only if things had some importance could one breathe, and suffer. it seemed that there was an understanding between them and the silent dead that it should be so, for the habit of acting so that things had some importance had become a human instinct, and one which was apparently eternal. Life was the important thing, and the Real was part of the instinct which gave life a little meaning. The instinct didn't try to imagine what might lie beyond the Real, because there was nothing beyond it. Nothing important. The door remained open and the cage became more and more painful in its Reality which was so important for countless reasons and in countless ways. We have never emerged from the times of the slavers. Malaise invades me as the crows around me grows. The compromises I have made with stupidity under the pressure of circumstances rush to meet me, swimming towards me in hallucinating waves of faceless heads. Edvard Munch's famous painting, The Cry, evokes for me something I feel ten times a day. A man carried along by a crowd, which only he can see, suddenly screams out in an attempt to break the spell, to call himself back to himself, to get back inside his own skin. The tacit acknowledgments, fixed smiles, lifeless words, listlessness and humiliation sprinkled in his path suddenly surge into him, driving him out of his desires and his dreams and exploding the illusion of 'being together'. People touch without meeting; isolation accumulates but is never realized; emptiness overcomes us as the density of the crowd grows. The crowd drags me out of myself and installs thousands of little sacrifices in my empty presence. "It would be a drag to die so young". wrote Jacques Vaché two years before his suicide. if desperation at the prospect of surviving does not unite with a new grasp of reality to transform the years to come, only two ways out are left for the isolated man: the pisspot of parties and pataphysico-religious sects, or immediate death with Umour. A sixteen-year-old murderer recently explained: "I did it because I was bored." Anyone who has felt the drive to self-destruction welling up inside him knows with what weary negligence he might one day happen to kill the organizers of his boredom. One day. If he was in the mood. After all, if an individual refuses both to adapt to the violence of the world, and to embrace the violence of the unadapted, what can he do? If he doesn't raise his will to achieve unity with the world and with himself to the level of coherent theory and practice, the vast silence of society's open spaces will raise around him the palace of solipsist madness.

It's illegal to sell any kind of alcohol before noon on Sundays in Michigan. While working at a gas station over the summer I learned that rednecks driving up from Ohio to go to NASCAR races tend not to find this all that amusing.

Magma rules King Crimson rules Close to the Edge is pretty sweet Rush sucks. Discuss.

I mostly agree with Kinetic, but if you insist on trying to get into them then Substance is probably your best bet. The Critical Consensus says that Closer is a masterpiece or something, but holy fuck is it boring. There's lots of way better post-punk out there. Look into that instead. Start with Gang of Four's Entertainment! and Public Image Ltd's Metal Box/Second Edition and go from there. Happy travels!

Are you honestly suggesting that once Mitt Romney no longer became a viable candidate for President the executives at AIG/Lehman/WaMu/et al got together with Hank Paulson and cooked up a brilliant plan to sink the credit market in an effort to stop John McCain? Do you realize how unbelievably retarded that sounds? Holy shit.

What?

This appears to have been compiled without any input from anybody who actually listens to/cares about hip hop. "T.R.O.Y" all the way back at 90? "Tha Block is Hot" as the lone Lil Wayne/Ca$h Money representative? No "Shook Ones"?!? What a weird list.